Raw
by usrednoci
Summary: His chest heaves beneath her, staccato gasps echoing in the darkness of his room. Post-Always. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

It's still raining when she wakes up, the steady patter of water echoing against his windows. Still dark too, though they'd forgotten to shut the blinds completely and New York is never completely dark. Even so, it's not morning yet. Of course, it wasn't exactly late when they both fell asleep. She knows she hasn't slept well for the past three days, and she suspects his nighttime hours have been much the same - tossing and turning, mulling over their investigation, worrying.

Add to that the blissful exhaustion of sated bodies, and she's not surprised that they both passed out so quickly.

Kate shifts against him, revels in the slide of his hairy legs against her smooth skin, glories in the way his body radiates soothing heat into her aching muscles. He's good for her - in so many ways.

She stretches her arm, allowing her fingers to trail over his bare chest, wincing at the sudden spike of pain in her biceps.

That twinge sets off all the others - the dormant aches that now make themselves known. Right, she'd gotten into a very physical, very vicious fight less than twelve hours ago. Adrenaline had fueled her return to the precinct, her walk in the rain, and her...activities since she'd arrived at Castle's loft. But the adrenaline is gone and both fatigue and a deep hurt have settled into her bones.

A groan she can't quite muffle in time echoes through his bedroom, and he startles beneath her, sleepy blue eyes popping open. Surprise fills his expression at first, and then a slow smile blooms across his handsome face. She can't help returning it.

"Kate," he murmurs, awe infusing the single syllable.

She leans closer, nudging his cheek with her nose. "Hey."

His eyes flutter shut, and she can barely make out the crinkles at the edges, laugh lines that testify to his joy. Her heart fills with affection and she feathers her lips over his skin, adoring him.

"Time to get up?" he asks softly, his hand at her back beginning a slow up and down that makes her feel oh so safe.

She shakes her head. "Not yet. It's still the middle of the night."

"Oh," he answers, his fingers curling, the smooth rubbing motion against her back becoming a gentle scratching instead. She arches her spine into the touch, cat-like, feels the stretching of abused muscles.

Basking in the sense of contentment, she says nothing more, just rests against him, letting him continue in his easy ministrations.

"Why're you awake?" he asks after a moment, his voice rough with weariness.

She sighs. "Not sure. Hurting maybe."

His hand pauses instantly, and he uses his other elbow to prop himself up, opens his eyes to look at her. "What?"

"He beat me up pretty good," she says quietly. "And then there was the whole hanging off a roof thing, so..."

"Kate," he gasps, and she realizes she hadn't really told him anything. Just the bare bones, just that she nearly died. But he probably thought that nearly died equals almost on the wrong end of a gun, not almost falling multiple stories to her death after hand-to-hand combat that left her close to broken.

She gives a mirthless laugh. "He got the drop on Esposito and me in his hotel room, knocked Espo out. I chased him to the roof and he proceeded to beat me up, choke me, and throw me over the edge. And then he left me there."

Her voice is matter of fact. It's done now, and she just wants to forget it, wants to block it out. Wants to not dwell in the terror of those moments when she thought that her life was over and she'd never get to this point.

But Castle...

She can see the horror in his eyes, can see even in the dim light the way his face has blanched at her recitation. Leaning forward, she presses her forehead to his.

"I'm here," she whispers. "I'm here and I'm okay."

His eyes slide shut, a puff of air washing across her lips. His voice is gravelly when he speaks. "I should have been there. God, Kate, I should have never left you."

She shakes her head, lets her hand drift up to rest over his thudding heart. "You were there."

He doesn't speak, but his eyes open again, shiny with unshed tears as he stares at her.

She flattens her hand, pressing hard against his chest. "I heard your voice, Castle, when I was hanging from the roof. That's why I held on. You were calling out to me, and I knew you'd pull me up."

A strangled breath escapes his throat and then he's crushing her to him, tugging her over his body, arms tight around her torso, one hand at the back of her head, his legs tangling with hers.

His chest heaves beneath her, staccato gasps echoing in the darkness of his room. He's trying to say something, but she can't quite make it out, and when she brings her hands to his face, his cheeks are wet.

"Breathe," she murmurs, tilting her forehead to his as she runs her thumb along his cheekbones. "Just breathe, Castle."

His eyes squeezed shut, tears still stream down his face. She kisses them away, her lips following the hot, salty trails across his skin.

"Never," he finally gets out, and his voice sounds deeper, rawer than she's ever heard. "Never again. I'm never leaving you alone again."

He surges up, meets and takes her mouth, possesses her.

And then she's on her back, Castle rising over her, his hands at her collarbones.

Gentle fingers trace her skin, even his most tender touch stinging a little. She watches his eyes, sees the knit of his brow, concerned and angry as his thumbs run along either side of her neck. Hours have passed; she must be bruised by now.

"I should have been there," he mutters, dropping his head to press his lips lightly to her skin. His mouth is warm, soothing, a balm to her wounds.

Reaching up, she winds her fingers into his soft hair, clutching at him as he works his way from her neck to her shoulder then back across to the other side.

"You were there," she murmurs, shutting her eyes as the image of a deadly drop fills her sight, the sound of his voice still ringing in her ears. "You're always there, Castle."

She lets her hand drift down to the nape of his neck, strokes the soft skin there as she whispers reassurances into the air.

"Where else?" he growls, and it takes her a moment to realize his question isn't really directed at her.

Rocking back, he kneels between her thighs, his hands and eyes searching her body for reminders of her war - their war. His fingers rove her skin, his face half shadowed. He's seen all of her now, stripped her slowly after urgency turned to tenderness in the middle of their frantic exploration of each other at his front door.

He'd found her scar and the raging inferno had been doused. Need remained, yes, and want. But it was muted, softened.

Even so, even after his earlier and very thorough discovery of her body, this still feels unfamiliar, still feels monumental - a paradigm shift, the earth tilting on its axis, the dawn of a new era.

She cringes internally at the way she's thinking, but she can't help it. And then she doesn't care, because his mussed hair brushes against her breast, and she's arching against him as his lips feather over her ribs.

"Castle," she groans, but he doesn't stop; he continues in his task of healing her hurts.

And it's almost too much.

Almost.

His mouth moves over her stomach, the area still sore from the impact of her would-be assassin's knee. She pushes up on her elbows, flexing the muscles of her abdomen, falls back when the strain is too much.

And then he's hovering over her, and she can't see his eyes but she knows the expression on his face anyway, knows the blend of ache and love.

"I could have lost you," he whispers hoarsely, his hand rising to push a wayward lock of hair from her cheek. "I could have lost you and I wouldn't have even known anything was wrong until someone called me. If someone called me. And, Kate, I-"

His voice hitches before he can finish the sentence, his mouth shutting on a barely restrained sob.

She lifts aching arms, curls them around his neck and pulls him down on top of her. He resists at first, and she knows he's afraid of hurting her further. But he needs this and she needs him and all the bruising in the world couldn't keep her from wanting his weight over her, his body a shield and a shelter.

"I'm here now," she murmurs, her lips brushing his ear as he shudders in her arms. "I'm here now, and I'm alive and I'm safe and-"

He cuts her off with a fierce kiss, steals her words away.

"Kate," he gasps when their lips break apart, and he repeats her name in that breathless voice, her name over and over as his mouth finds the hinge of her jaw, the pulse of blood in her neck, the hollow of her throat, the scar, the scar, the scar.

All she can do is whisper "I'm here," invocation and benediction both, her plea and promise as his mouth and hands traverse her flesh, scorching and soothing.

Sliding a hand under her back, he cradles her, pulls her closer, and she clings to him. Her slender fingers smooth down his trapezius, circling the strong muscles of his lower back for a moment and then continuing on to the curves he hides beneath tailored jeans.

His hips jerk at the touch and he takes a shaky breath. She smiles against his neck, opens her mouth to let her teeth graze the tense cords. He groans.

Forehead dropping to her shoulder, he shudders against her as her hand slides around his hip. She runs her thumb along the crease of his thigh, strong muscles jumping under her caress.

His breath heats her shoulder; he's panting, but his fingers still skim over her body, one hand lifting to cup her breast as the other drops to curl around the back of her thigh. She hums her approval, turns her head to press her lips to his cheekbone.

Shifting her hips, she makes room for him, but he stills his movements and all goes quiet save for the blood pounding in her ears.

"Castle," she begs, but he doesn't move. She lifts her hands, sliding one under his arm to curl around his shoulder while the other rises to cup his cheek, thumb glancing over his lips, swiping back and forth in the scant space between his mouth and her own collarbone.

He raises his head, light from the window sparking his gaze, intense and dark and dangerous. And yet so very gentle. He's a conundrum, her own personal paradox, and she wouldn't have him any other way.

She lifts her hips, his readiness brushing against her own. In the half light his eyes fall shut, his mouth falling open at the same time, ragged breaths echoing in the silence.

"Castle," she repeats. "Please."

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispers, shaking his head.

She coasts her hand up his cheek, brushes messy hair out of his eyes, murmurs her truth. "You won't. You can't."

He hesitates still, but she's burning, aching, needing him.

Bending one knee, she slides her calf against his thigh, pushes him closer. His eyes snap to hers, warning and longing both in his gaze. She doesn't look away.

And then he drives home, a swift slide until she cradles him flush against her, pressure and heat and wholeness sinking into her bones.

She curls around him, takes his strength and his tenderness both.

The best remedy.**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

She's so small beneath him, so very fragile.

She seems larger than life most days with her badge and her gun and her four-inch heels and her bravado and her ability to bring him to his knees with a few innuendo-laden words and a look.

But sometimes, sometimes he realizes just how vulnerable she is - that she's not made of steel, that her bones are brittle and her skin is penetrable and her blood...her blood-

He remembers her blood.

He remembers the way it covered his hands as she lay beneath him on too-green grass. He remembers the way it leaked out of her as he pled - with her, with God, with anyone who might be listening - for her to just hang on, to just stay with him.

He remembers.

And it's too much in this moment. Too much when he's braced over her once more, when he watches her eyes fall half shut, her lips parting. It's different, he knows it intellectually. But his heart is another matter. Her breathing is ragged, her brow slightly furrowed. And though she's not in her dress blues - not in her dress anything - and her hair is spread in waves across his pillow, not tied back in a neat bun, he still finds a lump rising in his throat, cutting off his air supply. Suddenly he's choking.

"Castle," she gasps, her eyes startling fully open as he rolls to the side, slipping out of her warmth. "What's wrong?"

But he can't answer, shuts his eyes only to find that terrifying image swimming in front of him. He throws a hand up to his face, presses against his eye sockets until stars appear in his vision, but it's not enough.

He sees Lockwood with a gun trained on her, sees pale blue skin and ice clinging to her eyelashes, sees her apartment in flames, sees her lifeless body wracked with the shocks of a pair of defib paddles. He sees it all.

And then he sees her.

Her face floats over him, eyes wide and concerned, mouth moving though he can't make out the words. She presses her forehead to his and sound slowly filters back in: the constant hum of the city, the rustle of sheets, her steady breathing, her voice - soft and tender and very much alive.

"Hey," she whispers. "Hey, Castle, hey."

It's nonsensical, just his name and an interjection, but it brings him back. She brings him back.

His hands lift of their own volition to her sides, smooth warm skin under his palms. Bruised skin, mottled with shades of black and purple that he can see as he looks down her body, that he can see even in the half light of the not quite dawn. She doesn't flinch away from his touch.

She shifts slightly, pressing into his hands, and he looks up to find her eyes dark on his. His thumb traces the edge of a particularly nasty bruise, mapping its borders. He lets his gaze drop once more, watching the skin change colors under his gentle touch.

"You okay?" she asks him after a moment.

He nods, can't quite meet her eyes yet, still needs the distraction of bare skin, of a lithe body gorgeous even with the angry battle wounds that mar it. Perhaps more beautiful for her scars, for this visible proof that she survives against all odds.

She lets him touch her, doesn't make him speak, and he's grateful for it, grateful for someone who knows him this well. He's seen her break down. She's seen him break down.

They're even. Equals.

She moves over him then, thighs clenching briefly against his ribs, releasing so she can slide down his body. It takes him a moment to realize exactly what he's seeing, exactly what he's experiencing. But then it hits him: _Kate_ _Beckett_, naked and unashamed, is straddling him.

He groans, feels the guttural sound as though it's being ripped from his body. Her lips curl upward in a small, pleased smile, and she leans forward. Slender fingers trace his chest, its mountains and valleys, tripping lightly over his skin.

Her hands settle at his shoulders, pushing him back into the mattress. She dips her head.

His whole body clenches at once, curling in around her as she presses her lips to his sternum, soft hair brushing his chest, soft skin meeting his stomach.

Hands rising from their grip at her sides, he holds her to him, cradles her, fingers strong at the base of her spine and at the back of her head.

She turns, pressing her ear to the spot over his heart, and her breath washes over his skin, making him shiver.

"Kate-"

His voice comes out a thready whisper, so many things he wants to say, none of the right words to say them. What kind of writer is he?

But then she speaks, murmurs the questions he can't find. "How many times? How many times have we almost lost each other?"

He palms the back of her head, lets his fingers weave into her tangled hair, dry now, but not in her usual immaculate style - mussed by rain and wind and his hands and his bed.

"Too many times, Castle," she says softly when he doesn't answer. She tips her head up and meets his eyes, her chin propped on his chest as one hand smooths across his shoulder to cup his neck.

"I don't-" she begins, and then she shuts her mouth, lips pressed tightly together, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. He lifts his free hand, brushes the back of his knuckles across her cheek, catching a single drop of moisture before it falls.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and he smiles at the sight of her mascara, usually so perfect, now clumping. Rain and tears and sweat and she is more stunning in this moment than she's ever been in all the time he's known her.

Here, opening herself to him, accepting him. Here, bruised and battered and very nearly broken - the pair of them. Here, as she opens tender eyes and lowers her mouth to his, gentle and seeking, drawing him out with lips and tongue and teeth.

He strains toward her, needs to be closer, ever closer, tilts his head and pushes up with his elbows and flexes his abdomen, his thighs rising to meet the backs of hers until he's folded around her.

Her arms curl around his neck. She's still kissing him.

"I could see you," he says when they break for air, his eyes closed, his forehead touching hers, their chests pressed together. "I could- I was having some kind of flashback to the cemetery."

She breathes against him - just breathes - and when he opens his eyes, she's watching him, gaze somehow both dark and luminous, fire and sorrow inseparable.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "I needed it, I needed the space and the time by myself to heal, but I'm so sorry I left you alone."

He can't-

He can't tell her it's okay. It's not, still not. He's forgiven her, yes, but it still hurts when he looks back on those months of loneliness, of wondering if she was alive, of wondering who was taking care of her, of wondering if he'd ever see her again.

Of wondering if she could ever love him back.

"Please," he roughs out, choked, the words clawing at his throat no matter how much he wants to hold them in, no matter how desperate and pathetic he knows they'll make him appear. "Please don't leave me."

She lets out a breath, a hot puff of moist air across his lips. "Castle?"

He can hear the grief, the hurt in his name, hates himself for putting it there, but-

Pressing forward, she cements their bodies together, palm at one cheek, her own at the other, her lips soft at his ear. "This is it for me."

He sucks in a ragged breath, his fingers tightening at her back.

But then she's pushing away, pushing away, and no no no, he can't let her go. He can't do this, can't have seen what they could be, can't have known her completely and have to give it up. Give her up.

His eyes squeeze shut, his chest tightening, a fist clenching around his stomach.

She touches his cheek, fingers featherlight, drifting down until her palm rests over his pounding heart. He opens his eyes.

And she smiles. "One and done, remember?"**  
**


	3. Chapter 3

For a moment she can't remember the last time she let someone carry her.

And then she can.

The echo of gunshots, her partner's stuttered breathing, his arms tight around her as she struggled. And then his hands, his hands brushing the hair out of her eyes, his hands covering her mouth to muffle her sobs, his gentle hands cradling her body as she fought, fought, fought against him and finally stilled.

She tucks her face into the crook of his neck as he lifts her; she hides in the warmth of his body. Her ankles hook just over his tailbone, arms curled around his shoulders.

His chest is warm against hers, solid and firm beneath her soft curves, a quiet strength she realizes she has underestimated far too often. Effortlessly he carries her across his bedroom, not a groan of exertion passing his lips, not even a hesitation as he moves with her.

She glances down in time to see him nudging the bathroom door open with his foot, and when she looks up, he wears an expression of determination.

"Castle," she says softly, and he turns adoring eyes to her, his gaze warm and devoted, though shadows of desperation still linger in its stormy depths.

Wordlessly he presses his lips to her forehead, and she feels his breath ruffling her messy hair. He kicks the door shut behind them with a quiet thud, strides towards the shower.

She has only a brief moment to appreciate the understated elegance of the space, to envy the deep bathtub where she can imagine hours spent up to her neck in bubbles, reading one of his books. Or having one of his books read to her by the man himself as his fingers coast over her skin under the surface of the water.

Then he's pulling one arm away to open the shower door, his other arm still holding her tight to him. He doesn't even falter and she doesn't slip.

She lets her eyes flick around the enclosure, taking in the details: warm, stone-rough tiles, a wide rain shower head suspended above, a handheld shower head on a rail at one side, a bench.

It's the bench where he deposits her, his hands lingering for a moment against her sides before he stands and turns away. She watches the way he moves, the muscles of his forearm bunching and releasing as he fiddles with a dial on the wall, the strong lines of his back narrowing to a trim waist and flaring out again.

He turns, catches her watching him, and when she meets his eyes - feeling the heat of a blush coloring her cheeks - a smile is flirting with his lips. There's nothing smug, nothing proud about it. Just happiness.

"Quite the shower you have here," she says, breaking the silence.

Oh, and there's the smirk, the familiar blue-eyed twinkle reappearing. "You have no idea."

She shakes her head, lifts one hand from its spot at her side, beckons him toward her with a crooked finger. "Show me?"

He saunters toward her, shameless in his nudity, and she'd laugh if it weren't for the predatory look in his eyes.

Instead she sucks in a breath, holds it as he draws closer. It's getting hotter by the second, her skin warming with every step he takes toward her.

"Like the steam?" he asks when he stands in front of her, belly button at eye level, his fingers lifting to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

Steam?

Oh. It's- yes, steam rises toward her, gentle wisps that curl around her skin.

She laughs, tips her head up to meet his eyes. "You have a steam shower?"

He nods, the corner of his mouth lifting as his hand trails down to cup her cheek. "I do."

Leaning forward, she presses into his touch, tilting to rest her forehead against his stomach at the same time. He hums. Rumbles, really, the vibrations of the sound shooting through her, making her belly clench.

She starts at his knee, skates her hand up the outside of his thigh, smoothing over the jut of his hip to grip his waist. He makes that noise again, almost a purr, but darker, more dangerous.

Lifting her eyes to his, she licks her lips. His gaze widens, blue eyes turning navy, steam curling at his neck.

"Kate," he rasps, his voice needy.

She presses her lips to his stomach in a wet kiss, lets her teeth trail across his skin, her tongue soothing the abrasions. He groans, fingers sliding from her cheek to tangle in her damp hair. One hand deserts the curve of his waist to trace the tapering vee of his obliques, her other hand searching out its counterpart, twining their fingers together.

He squeezes her hand tightly when she nips at his belly button, what sounds like a gasp echoing against the tile walls. His fingers card through her hair, a little roughly, tugging as her teeth find his tender skin once more.

And then his hand slides down, palming the back of her skull, the nape of her neck, the curve of her shoulder. His fingers clench against her muscles, and oh-

She hisses in pain, flinches away from the unintentional hurt. He draws back, steps back, hand leaving her skin, pulling away from her.

"Kate, I'm-" he begins, but she shakes her head, tugs on the hand she still cradles in her own.

"Just sore," she murmurs.

He cants toward her, hesitant, but then he cups her shoulder gingerly, presses her to turn. "Let me see?"

She allows him to move her, sliding around on the bench, baring her back to his his examination. He sucks in a breath, and she wonders just how bad it looks. Just how bad it really is.

Gentle fingertips prod at her spine, tracing her vertebrae one by one. She knows there must be bruises. She knows he's going to beat himself up for the way he slammed her against the door earlier, probably even the way he settled his weight over her in the bed.

But honestly, bruises had been the furthest thing from her mind at that point.

He's released her other hand now, his palm resting warm at her side, holding her steady. She sets her hand on top of his, keeps him there, pressing her elbow in against his forearm, the best embrace she can manage at this point.

He sinks to a knee behind her; she hears the slide of skin, the popping of a joint that signals his descent, feels the way his hold on her adjusts to suit his posture better.

Steam wafting up between them, she can feel the way he moves closer, his chest almost pressed to hers, as if he could shield her now the way he didn't - couldn't - before.

It's not his fault.

"Castle-"

"I'm so sorry, Kate," he whispers, the words sinking in her chest, making her heavy. "I'm so sorry."

He sets his lip against her shoulder blade, gentle and loving. He wants to make it better, she knows, wants to kiss away the hurts.

She wants to let him.

But it doesn't go that way.

"Castle," she says again, turning in his grasp, keeping one hand clasped around his even as the other rises to cradle his jaw. "This is not your fault."

"If I'd been there," he begins, but she shakes her head.

"He knocked Esposito out. Former Special Forces Esposito."

"One more person, though..."

She lets her thumb cover the seam of his lips, silencing him. "He'd have killed you."

His eyes plead with her, but she's clear on this much. She doesn't want him anywhere near this guy, this case. She's seen the lengths to which he'll go to protect her. She's seen how he'll risk his life to keep her safe.

She loves him for it.

But she doesn't want him dead.

Leaning toward him, she touches her forehead to his, watches as his eyes fall shut.

"You want to help me?" she asks quietly.

He nods against her. She presses her lips against his, a tender caress, warm. She slides her thumb across his cheeks, waiting for him to open his eyes.

"Help me wash my hair?" she requests when his gaze is fixed on her again. "Hurts to reach up too far."

The hint of a smile appears on his face. He nods. "I can do that."

He leans away from her, stands up, and again she has the pleasure of watching him walk away. It's not the first time she's - for lack of a better word - ogled him. But she doesn't have to pretend anymore, doesn't have to hide the flare of desire when he turns back to her, two bottles tucked under his arm, one in his left hand, and the handheld shower head in his right.

He sets his burdens down on the bench next to her. She watches him for a moment, and he stares at her in return, and then she turns to face the other direction, leans back.

The enclosure is silent for a moment and then she hears the flip of a toggle and the sound of flowing water.

A few seconds later, a warm spray hits the back of her ears and then deft fingers begin massaging shampoo into her hair. She melts.

Richard Castle is washing her hair.

She's going to smell like him. With every toss of her hair, every turn of her head, she's going to catch the scent of his shampoo. She doesn't know if it's intentional, suspects it's not, suspects he's just trying to take care of her in the ways he knows how - but he's marking her, claiming her as his.

And oh, she is.


	4. Chapter 4

He flinches when she flinches, drawing his hands away from her skin, lips already parting in apology. She gives him a look.

"I'm hurting you," he whispers, barely able to hear his own quiet voice over the rush of water.

She shakes her head. "He hurt me. You're making it better. Just stings a little."

He hesitates, but she cocks her head, raises an eyebrow at him. Still, he-

"I want your hands on me, Castle."

He sucks in a breath, takes in the determined expression on her face. He's not certain what to make of it, what to make of this woman who wants him to touch her even though he knows - even though they both know - that she's in pain.

"Kate," he begs, one hand held out in supplication.

Her eyes glitter, dark diamonds in the dim light of the shower. "Rick, please."

There's a roughness to her voice, a deep need that coats the syllables, and he reaches toward her again without thought, dragged under by her murmur.

Soapy fingers glide along her waist, coasting down her smooth lines to flare out over her hips. He gentles his touch when he reaches the darkening bruise on one side, tracing carefully over the damaged skin.

"It's like I was nothing," she says softly. "Nothing I did seemed to affect him. He just flung me around like a ragdoll."

He lifts his eyes to hers, sees the doubt, the fear lingering in her faraway gaze. There's nothing to say, no reassurance he can offer beyond his presence. Silently he leans forward, presses his lips to hers.

She meets his mouth, opening to let him inside. His hand slips from her hip to steady her as she tilts toward him, his fingers resting lightly at her spine.

He holds her there, his grip on her careful, but she presses into his touch, drops her hand to his forearm, curls her fingers around his elbow to bring him closer, tighter, nearer.

Eyes sliding open, he focuses on the furrow of her brows. This doesn't look like peace, like happiness. He breaks from the kiss, his throat clogged. "Kate."

She tips her head, nose bumping his and slipping past as she comes to rest cheek to cheek with him. He can feel the flutter of her eyelashes, the hot splash that blazes a trail down his jaw.

He tries to pull back, but her grip on his elbow tightens, her other hand lifting to palm the back of his neck, holding him to her. Her breath stutters against his skin, echoing in his ear. Her breath, ragged and weary, as more tears cascade down her face.

And all he can do is hold her.

Her breathing slows at long last, and he coasts his hand over her shoulder blade to cup the back of her head, fingers delving into the now clean curls, combing through the long strands as she settles against him.

He's grateful for the steam of the shower, knowing that otherwise they'd both be shivering by now. Pressing his lips to her jaw, he brings his hand forward as he leans back, wipes her cheek with gentle fingers, tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

She opens red-rimmed eyes, dark eyes, aching eyes. His heart thuds hard in his chest. He wants to crush her to him, wants to draw her body inside his own where he can protect her.

Instead he feathers his lips against her forehead and slowly heaves himself up until he's standing in front of her. Reaching down, he tucks her hand into his. But before he can pull her up, she's standing too, long and lean and absolutely beautiful.

Her hands bracket his waist, nails scraping lightly over his slick skin. Pushing against him, she forces him backward. He watches silently as she stares at the shower controls and then turns a knob, switching the flow from the handheld shower head to the one above, a gentle rainfall that washes over them when she tugs him back.

He stares at her, his eyes roving her features, the too-thin lines of her, the dark shadows under her eyes that *aren't* bruises, the harsh angles of her hipbones beneath purpling skin.

And then her hands rise to his chest, warm and sure and caressing him, and he forgets about adding extra calories to her lattes and convincing her to sleep in with him and everything that isn't the way she's touching him at the moment.

She leans forward, brushes a kiss against the juncture of his collar bones, works her way up the column of his throat to the soft spot just below his ear. Her nose brushes the shell, and then she takes the lobe between her teeth. Her whole body cants into his, her breasts meeting his chest, thighs brushing, his uncontrollable reaction to her trapped between them.

He catches her, steadies her with his hands at her waist as he tries to regulate his breathing, tries to adjust to the sudden shift. She was crying moments ago, her face buried in his neck, and now-

Ohh, but it's too good. She's too good, her mouth working at the jut of his jaw, her hands smoothing down the planes of his back. She's too good, and he can't concentrate on anything else.

He follows her when she leans away from his body, magnetized to her touch, drawn to her proximity. She bends down just as he seeks her lips, laughs when she straightens up, light and lust flashing in her eyes. She laughs and kisses him, soft and slow, presses her front fully to his, one arm curling around his waist until they stand flush under the steady flow of water.

"I love you," he rasps, his voice unsteady.

Water sluicing over her cheeks, she tilts her head up, her eyes bright, brimming, her lips parted as though she can't quite believe the words. It's- oh. It's the first time he's said it since he left her after their fight in her apartment. He'd been too caught up when she appeared on his doorstep, too caught up in need and want and maybe a little anger too.

But now. Yes, now, when she's standing in his arms, letting him shelter her, letting him soothe her and hold her - he can't not say it. "I love you, Kate."

One hand slides along his spine until her palm rests against his shoulder blade. Her eyes stay fixed on his, her gaze clear, intense, reverent. "I know."

He tilts his head to take her mouth, dives into her.

And she catches him.

She meets him, stroke for stroke, breath for breath, her hand sliding up and down his back, her hips pressing into him. He feels her smile against him, pulls back to see a flash of teeth and the hint of pink tongue before her lips press tightly together.

"What?" he whispers, an answering smile blooming on his own face. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she replies, shaking her head, and then there's the tip of her tongue again and a sly look in her eyes. "Well, not nothing. You."

He cocks his head. "What about me?"

"I was going to return the favor," she says softly, raising her other hand which he realizes holds the bottle of his shampoo.

"Oh."

"Next time?" she murmurs.

He lifts an eyebrow, a frisson of joy racing through his veins, buoying his already hopeful heart. "Next time?"

She nods, leans down to set the bottle aside, and he groans as the movement drags her skin over his. Meeting his eyes when she straightens, she smirks. "You're clean enough for now."

And then she steps back from him, catches his fingertips in her hand, wearing that same expression she wore earlier. She leads him out of the shower.

Dripping on the floor, he watches as she darts back in to turn off the water, fumbling for a moment with the controls for the steam. He doesn't mind the extra second, just enjoys the view. Even marred by bruises and scrapes she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, and when she turns back to him - when she *saunters* toward him - that dangerous look in her eyes, he feels his heart speed its pumping, feels his skin start to tingle, feels his whole body react to her.

She snags a towel from the rack on her way back to him, the terry cloth billowing open over her hands as she reaches toward him. Her touch gentle, she dries him in slow strokes, catches all the nooks and crannies of his body.

It's-

It's nothing he's ever experienced before - this intimacy of being cared for by another person, by a lover. But as she presses against his shoulder, turns him to face away from her, he realizes it shouldn't surprise him. She's always had his back.

She's halfway down his thighs when he pivots toward her, his fingers catching under her elbows to tug her up. He's undoing all her work, her wet skin sliding against his, and she makes a soft sound that might be annoyance, but he catches it with his mouth, keeps it from escaping.

Bending, he scoops her up easily, and he's certain that if this wasn't so new she'd throttle him for the liberties he's taking. But it is new, and she's still kissing him, and he kicks the forgotten towel out of his path, steps carefully across the room to avoid hitting the counter and bruising her more.

He has to maneuver to get the door open again, but her arms are hooked tight around his neck, her thighs clenched around his waist. She's not going anywhere.

Hours have passed, lifetimes surely, but it's still dark when he glances out the window, street lights and neon signs reflecting off neighboring buildings. The bathroom light cuts a wide swath into the room, illuminating his path as he carries her back to the bed. Bending, he starts to loosen his hold on her. But then the light catches on a bruise.

He turns instead, sinking down onto the mattress. She settles on his lap, breaks from his lips to breathe against him, her nose tucked against his cheek.

"Let me love you," she murmurs into his ear.

She- oh, she really... Try as he might, he can't keep the hitch out of his breathing.

Shifting her weight over him, she pulls back, hands rising to curl around his ears. He'd laugh at her choice of grip if it weren't for the look on her face - desperate, longing, apologetic. And terribly tender, fiercely devoted.

"I do, Castle," she says, her voice steady. "I do love you."

He tilts his forehead to hers, sucks in a shaky breath, keeps his eyes open. "I know."

"Four years," she whispers. "Four years, and you were right here in front of me."

There's a regret in her voice that tears at him. He doesn't want that. Not now. Not when they're finally here.

"We're both here now," he answers. "Together."

She sighs. "Together."

He lifts his hands to cup her cheeks, to kiss her swift and strong, pouring his gratitude into her, all his love and want and hope.

Hands on his shoulders, she kisses him back, lips and tongue and teeth, and then she's pushing against him, laying him down and hovering over him, her hair a curtain, her body a cloak.

"Let me love you," she repeats, her fingers tripping over his chest and his stomach, making his muscles jump, mouth at his cheekbone.

"You do, Kate," he breathes, his hands cradling her, gentle against her perfect body, and then he's breathless, surrounded by her, only her - always her. "You already do."

* * *

_the end_


End file.
